Andalusia: On the timeless trails of the high sierras

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High above the sierra, a bird of prey soared on an afternoon thermal. The tinkle of goat bells drifted into the valley from beyond a ridge, while small lizards skittered between boulders and cairns. Nearby a cluster of poplars, surrounding a forlorn, abandoned farmhouse, quivered in the breeze; and under an olive tree five bullfighters with waspish waists idled in the shade.

Well, perhaps not that last detail. But you get the picture. This was a pastoral scene that could have stretched in front of Federico García Lorca, Orson Welles, Ernest Hemingway or any number of Andalusia’s notable residents of the last century had they taken an afternoon walk in the countryside.

Except for one jarring note: in the middle of the field stretching away from the farmhouse ruins, a man’s gaze was locked on an iPhone, the one glint of modernity in the spring sunlight. And that man, I am afraid, was me, although I had every reason to be grateful for the trappings of the 21st century in this isolated spot.

My journey began several valleys north, where my wife, Kiera, and I began a self-guided walking loop around the Sierra de Grazalema Natural Park, culminating in Ronda. Our timing was dubious. Not long after the holiday was planned, we discovered our first child was on the way – joyful news, but perhaps not ideal for a trek into the sierra.

But we decided to carry on. With detailed walking notes, luggage transfers between accommodation, and pre-packed picnic lunches, how hard could a walk at our own pace through a beautiful part of rural Spain be?

And so we arrived at the hilltop town of Zahara de la Sierra, typical of the pueblos blancos (white towns) of the region, on a fault line that see-sawed between Moors and Christian forces in the 15th century. Above the steeply winding streets, a Moorish fortress perched, a vantage point that had prompted much bloodshed in those turbulent times.

Things were more civilised on our arrival, as residents dusted off purple satin and headed towards church for the town’s final Semana Santa preparations. We dined in the Hotel Al Lago, with the lights of another pueblo blanco twinkling in the dusk beyond the reservoir below. Over goat and chorizo, and Moroccan chicken, washed down with port and fresh orange juice, our decision to plough ahead seemed right. Were we ready for the challenge ahead? Vamos, we agreed. Another copa? ¿Por que no, indeed?

Next day, the portents remained good as we prepared for a descent of the Garganta Verde – literally green gorge – a protected beauty spot. On a bright April morning, locals gathered wild asparagus sprouting on trails. “Muy bueno con huevos” (very good with eggs), they told us as we passed. We made our way gently down towards a dramatic steep-sided canyon. As we passed through the yellow flowers of the Andalusian gorse, our walking notes highlighted an unmarked pathway rising to a viewing point over a wide gully.

There, we stood transfixed by a series of rapidly rising shadows on the cliff side, which eventually met the griffon vultures casting them. There are about 200 pairs here, making it one of the best places in the world to see them – especially early in the day before they rise on thermals to scour for carrion.

Deeper into the ravine, where the sun’s rays struggled to reach, carob trees gave way to precarious fig trees and moss. On the canyon bed, a huge shell-shaped cave, known as a hermitage and a sanctuary for rock doves and alpine swifts, marked the end of our trail. Beyond, only a sequence of abseils would allow any progress. Luck, we felt, should only be pushed so far.

After a picnic lunch, we made the return ascent at an easy pace, pausing at will – most notably when a griffon vulture glided so close we could hear the fizz of air rushing over its feathers, a magnificent close encounter with nature.

The following morning, buoyed by our first day’s trekking, we blithely donned our day bags and picked a path between olive groves towards Grazalema, another pueblo blanco and the main tourist hub. It is also the rainiest town in Spain, a fact we only later discovered, but which would assert itself during that day’s walk (April is one of the rainiest seasons in the region). We were, in short, drenched, and Kiera realised her “waterproof” shoes were not quite as sold.

It was a long, hard trudge, with the weather only lifting shortly before we crested a final ridge. It did so in spectacular style: wisps of evaporation made Grazalema’s platform of whitewashed houses across the valley appear like some mystical vision that not even the squelch of soggy socks could spoil.

But, their sodden memory lingered during our stay at La Mejorana, a smart b & b down one of Grazalema’s precipitous alleyways, looking over the valley we had just crossed. Or at least it did with Kiera, who on no account would undertake the next leg of the journey. It was a demanding ascent over a mountain pass and “a wonderful walk”, our notes promised us – but not ideal for mothers-to-be. And so our lovely hosts, Ana and Andres, agreed to take her along with our luggage to the next hotel, while I set off alone, my phone stashed in my day pack.

The path rose through a steep corridor of pines away from Grazalema, a large triangular rock face looming to the side. As mud crusted in the sunshine, I felt a rush of well-being and descended at a yomp into a pasture with animal corrals. Up towards a mountain pass, the trees thinned, as did the number of walkers along a less well-trodden path to the lunar-like upper plateau of the Sierra del Endrinar.

Despite the fading trail, the notes, always accurate (“I’ve done four walks with Inntravel – great walks, good food, and a high standard of accommodation,” another walker said over a breakfast buffet), guided me, highlighting blue spots on cairns, and contours around the side of a valley. Here I reached the aforementioned poplars, and was struck by the abandoned farmhouse: “Only 30 years ago, a family were running a thriving farm in this lonely spot,” said my notes.

And then, in this open land, I realised I had reached an impasse. The notes had introduced an unexpected element: readings from a compass. A compass which I did not have. And these were not just any vague instructions, where I could rely on dim childhood memories of Johnny Weissmuller using the sun to plot his path. These were precise directions: SSE 150 degrees, for instance. Gulp. It was a schoolboy oversight, realised at exactly the wrong moment.

I fumbled for my phone, like a baby for a security blanket. I could at least inform my wife of my predicament. No signal. Then it struck me – the phone had a compass. Armed with a 21st-century boy’s toy in a timeless landscape, I strode towards the ridge, and the chime of the goat bells. The wearers were soon in view, wandering amid the gorse bushes. I picked a path between them, renewing a climb and negotiating more compass directions with only mildly disconcerting detours.

Presently I was wandering amid abandoned chozos (animal huts) used by the farmhouse in the other valley. Thatched until recently, they are lost in a natural clearing and an atmospheric state of disrepair. My now trusted compass pointed me towards one final climb – and there below me were switchbacks down to Villaluenga del Rosario, my final destination. Una y mil veces, gracias, as they occasionally say in these parts.

As I gently mooched towards journey’s end the village bells pealed as though in welcome. Later, we discovered for whom they really tolled as we idly wandered this pretty, sleepy place, the smallest village of Cádiz province with a pocket-sized bullring to match. The shadows from the limestone ridge behind the town were lengthening when we came across a wake snaking through the cobbled streets.

Most of the village seemed to be filing through, sombrely shaking hands with the bereaved. I felt again as though I had stumbled on to an ageless scene, plucked from a Lorca play, or one of Hemingway’s Spanish novels. Only this time, thankfully, there was no sign of any newfangled phone.